


waiting for that morning sun

by lucy_blue



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Awesome Molly Weasley, FAMILY FEELS TO THE EXTREME YOU GUYS, Family Feels, Fluff, Gen, I think it's mostly canonical or pretty close to canonical, POV Molly Weasley, Post-Second War with Voldemort, Pre-Canon, Redeemed Draco Malfoy, but it's a gen fic so gen tags too i guess?, except that the Weasleys and Potters and Marauders are friends, how does that work???, i have to work so hard to not swear in these tags, redemption arc for Draco Malfoy because yall......, the fluffiest of fluffity fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-07
Updated: 2018-08-07
Packaged: 2019-06-23 05:15:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15599094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucy_blue/pseuds/lucy_blue
Summary: the story of the burroworhow Molly Weasley created a home, and then birthed, and (sometimes forcibly) adopted her kids into itorMolly Weasley and all of her many children





	waiting for that morning sun

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this in like 2016, and mostly forgot about it because it was off in a different google account, but I found it, and edited. the title is from Soldier by Fleurie. This is like? just a mess of headcanons and fluffy happy emotions so like... might wanna only read this if you got a dentist cause yall bout to be in danger of CAVITIES mwahaha 
> 
> aka i'm dying from the angst and i was trying to write for tcf but the angst is killiiiing me so i edited a fluffy piece and here you go?

Molly and Arthur made their own happiness.

They eloped in September, 1968. Most couples married in the spring or summer, but to them, it had been September, not Spring, that was about new beginnings. 

Their wedding was tiny. Molly didn’t wear her mother’s dress even though, back when she was young and dreaming of roses and romance of the type in trashy romance novels, she had sworn she wouldn’t get married in anything but it. Their rings were simple gold. They wore cuff links, and not the wand holsters that would be their staple fashion statement during the war. 

They were not quite soldiers and it was not quite a war. There were whisperings and rumors. There was no honeymoon. 

Their house was not the charming beach house Molly had day dreamed about so many times. Molly hadn’t been foolish enough to think marrying would somehow stop the dark shadow of the not-quite-war from sweeping over her, but still. It was barely more than a stable. Molly allowed herself forty seconds of immaturity, counted them out, and then smiled and set about making the best of it. 

One of their wedding presents was one of the beautiful beds from the Gryffindor dorms. Molly traced her fingers over the carvings when she couldn’t sleep. She thought maybe the reason why Professor McGonagall had given it to them was because she knew that sometimes in the dead of night all they wanted was to go back to worrying about OWLs. 

Molly gathered bits and bobbers. They filled their bookshelves with their school books, and then more books, ones they found in the yard sales their muggle neighbors put out, mostly. Arthur marveled over the odd words and highlighted the ones that made him most curious. 

Arthur bought a car. Molly was making apple pie when he burst into her ~~sort of~~ kitchen, those brown eyes alight, sparkling with delight. He dragged her outside and rambled about how he thought it worked, how he thought you were supposed to drive it. 

They got apple pie crumbs in it almost first thing. Arthur talked while he ate, saying how he thought because the seats were leather he should break it in like you do a boot, which means they absolutely had to go on a joyride, _right now_. 

Molly got pregnant. She knew a war was coming, had been growing insidiously like some creeping mold, and she was birthing her child into _that_? Her magic was going crazy, bending and warping as her ankles puffed up. None of the spells she used worked quite right. 

It happened sometimes, Madam Pince reassured her when she asked after an Order meeting. It wasn’t anything to be worried about; her magic would go to normal after her baby was born. And, according to old wives’ tales, it meant her baby was going to be particularly strong.

If her baby could be strong, so would Molly. She would keep strong through relearning how to do so many little things without a wand, keep strong through cramps and cravings and mood swings. And, she could give him a home, a proper one. 

Then the war broke out, suddenly, all the pent up pressure suddenly exploding through, and the home had to be be built between things, around the stress and anxiety. She built her house into a home between Order meetings where barely-adults tried to mold themselves into soldiers and the hot tea didn’t quite warm up their cores. 

Bill was born and Molly brought him to Order meetings, where the others melted a little bit, lost those shells they were trying to build around themselves, and told him silly stories, tickled him and tried to translate his gurgling baby talk. 

Fighting began in earnest and Molly continued building a home, sometimes during morning-nights as the adrenaline of battle leaked out of trembling fingers. Bill’s first steps were during an Order meetings, as they discussed strategy. The nearest set of calloused hands righted him and all of the adults stopped to clap and encourage him as he kept on stumbling along. Professor Dumbledore- Molly’s mouth couldn’t quite fit around _Albus_ yet- got all twinkle-eyed, his beard doing nothing to hide his smile. 

Molly got pregnant again, this time with Charlie, and there were to be no more fighting for her, not for the nine months until her magic settled again. On the long nights as Arthur fought, and Molly’s hands shook with the desire to hold her wand, to protect her husband, Molly knitted instead. She started with scarves, terribly knotted and not pretty in the least. Arthur wore them into battle, smears of absurd bright against a dark backdrop, scratching against his neck and reminding he was still alive. 

Her knitting got better. The scarves grew more detailed, less knotted, longer and fluffier. She experimented with new colors, with chunks of color instead of keeping the entire scarf the same shade. She made a scarf for each Order member, and kept them just scratchy enough to remind, you are among the living, not the dead. 

They built a room in the loft, a long low space to be a nursery for their boys. The ceiling they painted navy blue and hung with muggle Christmas lights. The summer of ‘74, when they had kind of fallen into a rhythm, when the Ministry was finally getting things together properly, when it seemed like they might win, they painted the walls, too, and added in a window seat. 

The war got harder. Molly got pregnant. She asked her neighbors how to make sweaters. Bill watched her knitting, mouth dropping slightly in awe as she created fabric from yarn. Charlie learned how to crawl and Bill listened to the baby kicking and guessed about what the newcomer would be like. 

Percy was born. Molly knit him a hundred socks, switching them out rapid fire as he grew. She knit Bill a sweater with the letter B on it, and Charlie a sweater with the letter C on it, because Percy kept on mixing them up. 

The war was getting worse, and Molly knit a hundred sweaters, cooked a hundred apple pies, practiced dueling stances while her children played around her. 

Bill carried little Percy around in his arms, Charlie started learning to read, and she told them about happier times, time when war wasn’t raging. One weekend Arthur drove them into a beautiful forest and they had a wonderful picnic of apple pie and thick, delicious sandwiches and lemonade. 

The nursery was cramped enough already with three young boys, and so when she got pregnant yet again, she and Arthur decided to give their place a little remodel. They sectioned off part of the nursery for stairs and built a room atop the sloping roof of the house, using strong thick lumber to prop it up. The new rooms on the second floor (the nursery level they called the half-floor because it was so squat) were to be for the children; one for each of them. 

This pregnancy was harder; Molly got sick much easier and could knit less sweaters, but knit sweaters she did, gorgeous sweaters like offerings up, like pleas- just one more sweater, one more sweater as a warm touch on the icy nights, just one more child who she hoped wouldn’t be fighting in this war.

She had two- twins. Twins that tried to climb over each other and gurgled at each other like they were speaking their own language. She kissed their foreheads and watched Bill try to pick them both up at once. 

She met Lily Evans at an Order meeting being held at Hogwarts. She was young, so young it seemed to Molly she should still be walking those halls as a student, not as a new recruit. She had flaming hair and brilliant green eyes that sparkled with wit. Her freckled cheeks dimpled when she grinned.

She and a gorgeous, lanky boy with hair that never laid flat bantered and they acted like they were angry, but half the time it slid towards flirting. Molly smiled knowingly and didn’t remark when Lily insisted that they were “Just friends, and barely friends at that, I don’t know why I put up with a toerag like him sometimes...”

Sirius had about a thousand stories to tell anyone who would listen about them. Molly listened and laughed, wincing at Lily’s harsh rejections, but nodding in agreement when Sirius said that when Lily finally said yes, James would probably fall off his chair or trip or what have you out of sheer surprise. 

All of them were so perfect, so young and perfect, Molly prayed they would never have to see battle. Had Molly ever been so young and golden?

Lily came over, a few times, and told Arthur about growing up muggle, gave them the books muggles wrote about magic. Her words were almost as good as the poetry. She told them of a magicless world, harder and grittier but also, like coal pressed into a diamond, stunningly beautiful in a way that the wizarding world was not. 

When Molly knitted the Order sweaters, Lily’s was a beautiful cream and gold sweater with an elegant L, and James’ sweater dark red sweater with a golden J. For Sirius she gave him a purposefully unflattering one, pumpkin orange with a green S on it. Sirius laughed when he got it and she told him who was too handsome for anything else. Sirius wore it always and even with it on, Remus Lupin still blushed whenever he looked at his friend. (Remus Lupin visited once, with Lily, and they all drank hot tea that curled in their stomachs like dragon fire. Molly hoped Percy could grow up to be as wonderful as Remus; Remus was like what Molly hoped Percy one day would be.) 

When she got pregnant a fourth time, she hoped even more this time, her baby would not have to see war, would never know the shade of a Killing Curse (Molly could see it when she closed her eyes) or the sound of Bellatrix Lestrange’s laugh (it echoed through her nightmares).

Lily, now Lily Potter, visited her and learnt to knit from her. Molly was one of the first to know that Lily was pregnant.The two spent most of their time in the Burrow together. Lily read Bill and Charlie and Percy muggle fairy tales, juggling a twin on each knee. 

Ron Weasley was born. She had been hoping for a daughter, but when she saw Ron’s face she fell irrevocably in love, just as she had for all of her other children. 

They had some money saved up (Molly didn’t know it but Lily had been “losing” galleons into her friend’s couch sometimes), and they bought some more land- land enough for a proper garden, land enough for so many possibilities. 

Possibilities.

Molly held little Harry in her arms, saw his face small and bright and innocent without scars; she felt his hand curl around her finger like he would not let go of life. (He would not. He would not; instead he would live, twice, when death had stalked him.) 

Lily came to her, raging and crying and smiling, and told him her baby boy, her little Harry, would either die or save the world. She told her that she would have to hide, that she would do anything for him, that she would find some way out of it, but that it would be hard. Lily and James, among the people who valued freedom the most, would give up anything for their Harry. 

Molly sobbed when she heard of the death of beautiful, red haired Lily Evans, and lanky and young and fractured James Potter, and had a child- a red haired girl- for the victory. A victory twofold- a girl, the end of the war. It did not feel like a victory. She knitted sweaters and cried and wondered where Harry was.

Her children grew. She and Arthur added three more rooms to the Burrow and watched one child after another board the Hogwarts train, heard first words and taught their kids how to ride their broomsticks. It was a chaotic whirl of sunshine, and sometimes Molly thought she’d see Lily step in, red hair flaming, and pick up little Ginny and bounce her on her knees and start telling Arthur about muggle libraries or malls or what a factory was. 

Lily would have fit in so well, Molly thought often with a pang. Another redheaded spitfire, an older sister for Ginny. James would have loved the twins ~~Sirius would have too~~ and Harry and Ron were just the same age, they would have been like brothers ~~like Sirius and James~~.

Molly saw Harry at the station and told her children not to stare and went home and looked over his face in her mind again and saw his skinny body and went out to buy some thick, soft yarn. 

She had Harry back again- Harry, the eighth Weasley, Ron’s best friend after all, Harry who made her doubt even Albus Dumbledore, and the war was over, and what could go wrong? And then, Ginny, her beautiful baby girl who was doted on by her oldest brother and her father, who everyone loved, was possessed. 

She started practicing dueling stances in her curiously empty home, and began inviting friends over to fill up the emptiness, tried to find Remus Lupin or other Order members she missed to fill up the space inside her, and missed Lily Evans and the hot mugs of tea they would share.

She invited Remus Lupin over, the summer between Ron’s third year and his fourth year, and they talked about Lily Evans and James Potter and he read from the worn muggle poetry books she still kept. 

And then the Triwizard Competition, a tournament with four wizards, where the only real winner was the He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. She helped the twins figure out loans and property prices in Diagon Alley and practiced more dueling, when she wasn’t reading through muggle poetry.

She watched the war coming, and thought how much worse it was, that it was her children fighting and not her parents. She planned a wedding, and then a war. She gave Hermione a warm, soft sweater to wear on the run, and packed three backpacks. She wished she could do more. 

Not much later, she saw the Burrow burning before her, and fought the flames partially with her tears. She would build her own happiness. The ashes of Death Eater robes were mixed in with the ashes and the burnt timbers of her home of sunshine. 

The fire only really singed the ground floor; she repainted and rebuilt and it looked good as new, better even, but she could still smell the ashes, under the fresh paint. She walked through the empty house (it still felt too empty, just her and Arthur) and read books on how to duel better, faster, and knitted sweaters for the war.

She saw Hogwarts go into battle, she saw the stone statues assembling. She saw those bolts of light coming, like falling stars, saw shield fall, flaming like the very sky was lit in one last burst of brilliance before the eternal night. And then she could see nothing more except for the faces of those she fought, whirling by, pale in the moonless night. 

Fighting Bellatrix did not feel like victory. It felt inevitable. She had been fighting of nightmares of Bellatrix’s laugh for years. When she said, “not my daughter, you bitch,” she had been meaning Ginny but when she relieved the night in her dreams, she thought of “mudblood” written on Hermione’s arm. 

Her dreams. 

Molly would see Ginny dying at Bellatrix’s hand in her nightmares, but Bellatrix was dead. Gone and dead, never to harm a soul again. 

She would see Harry in Hagrid’s arms, hearing the laughter and delight of the death eaters, but Harry had tricked them, Harry was alive. 

She would hear the click of cold boots on stone as hard-hearted Death Eaters hunted young students in the halls, but she hunted them, and the badgers led the younger ones to the the hiding places they had found- hidden closets and study rooms, guarded with careful traps. 

She saw young students who had had a year of education stolen and traded out for torture curses, defending their friends, back to back in their hiding places, hearts beating fast and furiously. Beating still, because they were alive, they _lived_. They were all the children who lived.

The Burrow began to fill back up again. Harry had clothes scattered everywhere. Some of Neville’s potted plants sat on the burrow’s window ledges. Harry’s clothes were scattered everywhere. A good chunk of Hermione’s library was on coffee and bedside tables at the Burrow, and she kept on Flooing in to grab the notes she had forgotten at the Burrow over the weekend. Several of Teddy’s toys were under the red and gold couch. 

Teddy cycled through a mess of people. He spent most of his time with his grandmother, but his grandmother was often busy, busy working with Hermione. The two of them were fighting the same war on two front, Hermione loudly, with wide strided steps and her loud confident voice and her perfectly researched papers, Andromeda with tea and smiles and connections and careful words. Neville babysat him after class and on weekends, and taught him plants. When Harry babysat, Teddy watched in fascination as Harry’s snitch whizzed around and listened as Harry whispered about spotting the little patterns, anticipating the direction it would turn next. 

Once when Teddy spent an afternoon with Hermione, she explained the scientific method to him (“Yes, I know it’s too early, but better early than never, and besides, maybe if I explain it to Teddy, Ron will accidentally hear some, too.” “I don’t think that’s how that saying goes, Hermione,” Harry replied, lips quirking upward.)

His first home was with his grandmother, but his second was in the Burrow- it was all of theirs, really. Molly had meant to make a home for her children, and she had- just a couple more than she had initially expected.

One of them was more unexpected than the others, and arrived later than all of the rest.

The radio was on, with Celestina Warbeck’s warbling voice filling the room. Hermione was curled up around a book- a book instead of Ministry paperwork or her newest essay on political reform, a feat Molly had achieved with much effort- her toes, clad in warm, fuzzy socks, wiggled and stretched towards the fire. Ron, sitting on one side of her, was watching Harry play with Teddy on the carpet and finishing his third helping of Molly’s classic apple pie. 

Ron leaned forward- the squat little coffee table the pie was situated on was much too short- and cut a slim piece of pie. He reached down and handed it to Harry, who sat back in satisfaction, beaming with pride as Teddy very nearly snatched the snitch out of the air, only missing by a split second.

Hermione was trying to explain muggle banking to Arthur- with little luck- when the doorbell rang. Molly leapt to her feet, pulling open the door, wondering who it could be.

Standing there in the doorway of the Burrow was Draco Malfoy. His pale hair gleamed in the light. Despite the oddly informal clothing- Molly didn’t know Draco Malfoy owned any clothing outside of formal dress robes- he was standing stiffly, his shoulders rigidly held back, like a soldier. His face was blank in that Slytherin way Molly recognized from Andromeda. 

“There’s been a scheduling error.” His voice sounded different, though of course the last time Molly had heard him speaking was seven years ago- _had it really been seven years?_ when she had come to watch Harry testify at his trial. It was surprisingly pleasant to listen to, a smooth, deep timbre. “Today is my day to visit Teddy. Aunt Andromeda’s personal assistant informed me that something came up today and Teddy was being babysat at the Burrow.”

Draco Malfoy stepped past her like he expected her to stop him. He spotted the Golden Trio and his already rigidly perfect posture somehow improved more, like a prisoner of war facing the general of the captor army. Harry’s mouth had dropped open and he was gaping like a fish.

Teddy rushed to his feet. “DRACO!” He slammed into Draco, his hair bleaching white blonde at once. “I was wondering if you were still coming today, Harry’s been teaching me how to spot the patterns in the Snitch, and I actually almost caught it this time! Almost, but it was so close, it practically counts! You think it counts, don't you?” 

“That’s great,” Draco smiled- actually _smiled_ , Molly could see Harry quietly imploding out of sheer _inability to comprehend_ \- and ruffled Teddy’s hair. "It may not count in a real game of Quidditch, but you've got to walk before you can run, and at your age, _almost_ catching the snitch is quite the achievement." 

“You think?" Teddy grinned. "How’s Cissia? Has she given birth yet?” 

“Yes, to a full, healthy litter. We haven’t named them yet, but they’re all doing quite well.” 

“Do you think Gram would let me adopt one?” Teddy asked eagerly. 

Draco hummed, his smile widening. “Lucky for you, I’ve already asked her. She’s got some conditions, of course, but it’s a yes.” 

Teddy squealed in delight. 

When Teddy ran off to fetch something he wanted Draco to see, Draco addressed the others briefly. A curt nod to Harry, “Potter,” another to Ron, “Weasley,” and a third to Hermione, “Granger.” Outside of that, he didn’t speak a word to any of them. When Molly offered pie, he politely refused and went back to ignoring everyone except for Teddy. 

Andromeda had another scheduling error. Harry made some painful small talk about the weather and the two went back to ignoring each other. Molly made a point to hound Draco about food until he accepted a slim slice of pie, which he ate with almost inhumanly impeccable manners. 

Andromeda continued to make scheduling errors, and Molly continued to pretend to believe they were errors. Draco’s posture loosened incrementally, so slightly you barely even noticed. The small talk got very slightly less awkward, bit by bit, until one day, Draco and Harry started to argue again. 

About Quidditch, of all things. They had been telling Teddy about Quidditch and somehow it had devolved into an arguement about who was a better seeker, Harry or Draco, and Harry had dramatically challenged Draco to a competition. Harry wasn’t hiding his grin very well. Draco’s face was almost completely blank but Molly got tea with Andromeda at least once a week for the past six odd years, and they had almost exactly the same mannerisms. 

The competition was inconclusive and Harry demanded a rematch, which Draco long-sufferingly agreed to. Soon Harry and Draco had a long standing competition each Tuesday, and kept meticulous tally of wins, losses and draws. 

Draco told Teddy about the mermaids under the Lake and when he was in third year, a clever half blood taught them sign language, and by sixth year all of Slytherin knew at least a bit of sign language, which they would use to ask the mermaids for dating advice, because, Draco informed Teddy sagely, the answers were always hilariously bad, which wasn't useful as far as advice goes, but sometimes getting a laugh is better than getting advice. 

Harry responded by telling Teddy about talking to the snake in the zoo, and how he had thought he had understood snatches of what Hagrid’s dragon had said, but had dismissed it as just his imagination. 

Molly asked Teddy what would go best with green, for Draco’s sweater. 

She couldn’t wait for Draco and Harry to stop talking to each other through Teddy and just talk to each other.

**Author's Note:**

> Fred is not dead, because no. No. Nope nope nopeity nope nope.
> 
> for some reason this fic made me maybe ship drarry, just the little ittlest bit. idk man


End file.
